


Recompense

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Gabriel, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: s09e18 Meta Fiction, Revenge Sex, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-21 23:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15569010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: 9x18 coda. Gabriel’s not dead. Sam has some opinions.





	Recompense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [intotheruins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/gifts).



> So Dale came to visit this weekend, and while he was here, we went through our unfinished fic archives. Imagine my and then his surprise when I discovered that not only had I intended this as his birthday gift in 2015, I’d finished it… but never posted it. No idea why. So here it is for Birthday 2k18. (Love ya, dude!)

In an office up in Heaven, the keys on an old typewriter begin to clack down by themselves. One by one, letters form words on an abandoned manuscript.

When Gabriel leaves Castiel that evening, he doesn't leave Earth. Not yet.

He appears, a silent specter, in a bunker in Lebanon, Kansas.

The room is still, but he's not alone. A head is bowed atop two folded arms on the long, paper-strewn table. Sam Winchester sleeps like a hunter, barely any sound to his breaths, but Gabriel hears their regularity and sees that Sam is healthy, if a bit too sleep-deprived. He's gotten even bigger since they last saw one another. There's a weary set to his shoulders, and he's not relaxing, even as his eyelids twitch in the depths of REM sleep.

Gabriel wonders what he's dreaming now.

Memories abound from the days when he would walk the Winchesters' dreams. Sometimes with Castiel, mostly alone; sometimes in Dean's, but mostly in Sam's. It wasn't a habit, more like a compulsion, and he found some pretty disturbing shit in there too.

Gabriel frowns. It deepens as he looks down on Sam's sleeping form, seeing his nightmares painted there in the flickers across his face, in the sculpted lines of his back and arms as they tremble. He fights.

There was a time when Gabriel fought monsters in Sam Winchester's dreams, more often than not alongside Sam himself. Sam never remembered. Gabriel thinks he may have to do it again, listening to the way Sam's heartbeat is beginning to race.

He's not sure he can do much this time. He can't tell what scope his powers have. It's distracting.

Knowing he has to try anyway—for his own stupid sense of honor as well as for Sam—Gabriel touches down, alighting to stand behind him.

He kneads his fingers into one tense shoulder.

Another room wraps itself around him, a darker one with odd wallpaper. He's standing beside a bed, alone. Shadows range up from corners, behind the ramshackle furniture, a duffel tossed carelessly on a bed. Maps are tacked on the walls, string on the tacks. An angry voice rages from an adjacent room.

_“I don't care what the omens say! He's got to be there.”_

It's a younger, furious Sam. Gabriel can see him through the crack of a door, pacing in what must be this motel room's tiny facilities. He's got a cellphone crammed to one ear.

“No!” Sam shouts into it. “He's got to be. It's the only logical explanation.” His lip curls in a sneer, a flash that paints itself frozen across Gabriel's retinas. “And when I find the son of a bitch,” Sam continues in a growl, “he's gonna bring Dean back and he's gonna fucking _pay_ for every single one of those—” His voice cracks. “—one-hundred and twenty one—no, _you_ take it easy. I am done playing games with this Trickster.” Sam spits the last word.

It's a thunderclap to Gabriel's heart.

He made this nightmare.

 _Fuck me,_ he thinks, _I've got to wake him up._

The kid didn't deserve to live that whole thing once, let alone over and over again when he sleeps. It's been years, but doubtless Sam has been seeing this regularly since then. Gabriel feels sick. It didn't turn out like he wanted it to. _Nothing ever does._ And coming here was a mistake.

Gabriel withdraws. He brings Sam's consciousness with him. As he twists, rising, Sam wakes, and Gabriel continues up and out, racing skyward. He figures he'll just fade away like he was meant to.

What happens isn't really this, at all, but metaphorically speaking:

A hand shoots out and grabs his wrist, holding him to this plane.

In the resolution between sleeping and waking, this translates to Sam's rough hand pinning Gabriel's to the table. The sleep-tousled head lifts, and hazel eyes capture his.

“What the hell?” Sam rasps, and for some reason, Gabriel's first instinct is a smile.

Probably because this shouldn't be possible.

He figured it out. He's just the figment of a madman, a poor lonely scribe all hopped up on hoarded power. He's words on a page. That's it.

As he and Sam stare at one another, though, Gabriel can't help but wonder if there isn't more power to words than even the Voice of God ever guessed.

“Miss me?” he tries, overshooting nonchalant by a country mile.

Sam's expression hardens. He takes his hand back, massaging his other thumb into the palm. Gabriel recognizes a grounding gesture when he sees one.

“Aren't you supposed to be dead?”

Nothing about Sam's tone tells Gabriel whether he was glad to see him go, or not.

“Rumors of my death have been—”

“Yeah, yeah. Cut the crap,” Sam snaps, interrupting him. _“Are_ you actually standing there, and _how.”_

“For better or worse, Samwise Gamgee, it is I.” Gabriel would bow here, if he didn't actually have some respect for Sam. “As for how, well. It's a pretty stupid story.”

“Enlighten me,” Sam says flatly.

“Metatron,” Gabriel says, full stop, just to see Sam's jaw drop like that. “Yep, got it into his head to play with Cas. Moron never figured it'd wind up an incarnation.”

Sam blinks.

“Perks of being a deity, as well as all the other awesomeness I embody,” he breezes.

Sam inhales deeply, sort of a long _a-ha._ Gabriel chooses to see it in a positive light.

“So what do you want with me?” Sam asks him.

 _I was curious,_ Gabriel wants to say. _I wanted to see how that head of yours was holding up. More patchwork than before, apparently..._

 _I missed you, okay?_ he wants to say.

_I missed your stupid face._

“Penance,” he says.

Sam's focus narrows to a sharp point. Gabriel suddenly, concisely knows what it's like to be the thing that Sam Winchester is hunting.

He rallies. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me _one-hundred twenty-_ one,” Sam immediately sneers. “All those... creative little ways. You owe me your _life.”_ White-lipped, his entire body taut with rage he's been repressing since 2008, he says, “You can't possibly conceive of how much you owe me for what you did to Dean.”

_What you did to me._

It's even more telling that that's what he doesn't say.

Gabriel glances down at the floor. “You're absolutely correct,” he says roughly. He thunks to his knees in front of Sam, who rears back in his chair. “Take whatever you want from me.”

Sam snorts at him. “Get up,” he scoffs.

Gabriel peers up at him.

“I don't want your obeisance, and I _really_ don't want your submission. Quit it.”

Laughing without a trace of humor, Gabriel stands. His hands find the pockets of the jeans Metatron wrote him into.

“Now I feel like an idiot.”

“Good,” Sam says, turning away. His broad shoulders hunch when he sinks atop his elbows, pensively regarding the tabletop. “I'm glad for you.”

“Sam—”

“Get out of here, Gabriel,” Sam says to the table. “You're not even real.”

Now that affronts him. Really? Did he not implicitly say 'incarnation'? Gabriel makes a face at Sam's back. This is why he always has to do things the old-fashioned way.

“Aren't I?” he murmurs, and changes the room.

They haven't gone anywhere, but it looks like they have, like he's plopped them down in the middle of a desert. He can raise the temperature, lower the humidity, and cloud Sam's mind into thinking there's blinding sun, biting wind, and no water in sight.

Sam falls off a chair he no longer believes is there in abject surprise.

“What?” he shouts, the desert scouring the words from his throat. He coughs. “What is _this_ for?”

“Real enough for you?” Gabriel tosses back.

A mere instant passes and they're standing in an oasis, an illusion of cool water lapping toward Sam's feet. Sam shifts, staring about himself in wonder. Gabriel watches him. There is green growth all around them, and Sam's eyes reflect it.

Nearby, a little spring bubbles, crystal clear and deep. Flowers bloom by the water.

When Sam turns back to Gabriel, his expression is torn.

“Don't think this earns you any points,” he says tightly.

“Au contraire, mon cherie,” Gabriel counters cheekily. “This is just the beginning.” From nowhere, he tosses Sam a bottle of something high-proof and expensive. “Drink up.”

The bottle comes right back at him, fast, aimed for his head. He catches it.

“You've got another thing coming if you think I'm lowering my guard around you,” Sam says.

“Why would I be here to hurt you?” Gabriel asks him, conversational, cracking the bottle's seal and pouring two conjured glasses.

“Why wouldn't you?” Sam purses his lips at the proffered drink.

Gabriel jiggles it, waggling his eyebrows. _Come on, you know you wanna._

With a very put-upon sigh, Sam grabs the glass. He doesn't drink out of it.

Scoffing, Gabriel drains his own glass, and pours another. He's pleasantly surprised to feel its artificial warmth flood his veins. That's right, Metadouche never did have much respect for the archangel set. Gabriel would bet his grace that he's more mortal now than he's ever been. It might even be possible for Sam to kill him.

He briefly entertains making that offer.

Sam distracts him by sighing again, this time more softly, and tossing back his drink. Gabriel's eyes get snagged somewhere halfway down the line of his throat when he does.

“Come here.”

Wait. Did Sam say that?

The look on his face says he did. Gabriel saunters toward him, sipping his drink. When he's less than a foot away, he leans in, and tilts his face coquettishly. “Yeeess?”

There's a brief moment of hesitation—Sam grabs him by the collar, hauling him up on his toes. The difference in their heights has never been so apparent.

“How sorry are you, Trickster?” he hisses, alcohol and vitriol on his breath.

“Sorry enough to let you maul me,” Gabriel says, strained. The operative word might actually be 'stupid'... but he’s sorry, too.

“Nothing is ever gonna make up for what you did,” Sam tells him matter-of-factly, and shoves Gabriel away. He whips off his own shirt. Gabriel has to do a slow, incredulous double take at what Sammy Winchester has done with his body in the past five years, because _damn._

“But,” he adds, a smirk on him like a viper, “you're gonna beg for it like it will.”

“This I could get behind,” Gabriel says. He shrugs out of his jacket. Sam is removing his belt, slowly, watching him with intent as the tail end slips each loop. When he's got it in his hand, he folds it up and snaps it menacingly. Gabriel's fingers twitch, hesitating at the hem of his shirt.

 _“I'm_ not gonna be behind anything, am I?”

“Either get nude, or don't,” Sam says, in that same matter-of-fact tone he used before. “I'm putting you on display in exactly sixty seconds.” He tosses the belt away.

Gabriel swallows, base anticipation searing him, seizing at his cock and stroking. He gets his shirt off, a little awkwardly, but gets every ounce of his confidence back from the way Sam is looking at him. Like he's a god. And rightly so.

He was.

He uses too much mojo making the rest of his clothes simply vanish, and feels it leave him like blood from a wound. He forces himself not to care, focusing instead on how Sam shimmies out of his jeans and kicks them away—on how Sam's not wearing any underwear. He's built like a Renaissance statue. Gabriel feels ridiculously small just looking at him.

Never mind when Sam comes stalking toward him, cock thickening between toned legs, fists clenched. He crashes up against Gabriel, catching him up in long corded arms and yanking his head back with fingers tangled in his hair.

Sam folds himself in around Gabriel, teeth to his neck.

When he bites down, Gabriel's whole body seizes with pleasure. Exquisite pain, beauty, and white-hot need grab hold like never before. The entire oasis rings with the force of the cry that's ripped from his throat.

Now, he whimpers. Sam moves down to his shoulder, gnawing at him ruthlessly, their bodies pressed together in one long line of heat. Pinned, Gabriel lets out a whine.

“Hush,” Sam growls and spins him around, shoving at his shoulder blades, forcing his face down toward the table that Sam shouldn't be able to see. The desert illusion flickers.

Gabriel resists, just a little, just to see what Sam will do.

Sam puts his weight into it, _whoa_ _,_ yanking back on Gabriel's hips so he's _presenting—_

His cheek hits the table with a thunk. Reality swallows their oasis.

Pressed up against him, Sam is breathing like he's just run a race, the hard line of his cock riding the crack of Gabriel’s ass. Gabriel is completely immobilized, spread wide open. Sam can do anything he wants.

“Hey, uh,” Sam says. He sounds unsure, for all that's happened so far. “I'm not a complete dick, so... can you conjure some lube?”

Gabriel laughs, sudden and bright. “I can do you one better, kiddo.” He slicks himself, works the muscles open, his hips twitching hard against Sam. He moans. “There.”

Humming, Sam slips a thumb right in.

“You know? I never pegged you for— _ungh,_ this,” Gabriel said, the word punched out of him when Sam gets two fingers in, no problem.

“Shouldn't peg people without asking first, it's rude,” Sam says, distracted. He's pumping his fingers in and out, stretching even though Gabriel ought to feel prepped. _He must like it,_ Gabriel thinks, dazed. _He must—oh, fuck—he likes—_

Sam lines up his cock and thrusts hard, slamming in to the hilt, driving all the air from Gabriel's lungs.

He manages a strangled groan, writhing. Impaled.

“Sam—”

“Don't say my name,” Sam tells him harshly, beginning to fuck him in earnest. “You wanna say a name, you say his. Once for every time you murdered him and made. Me. Watch.”

Every thrust jolts Gabriel hard into the table. Sam fucks in harder, digging his fingers in to Gabriel's shoulder, his hip. He's clearly pissed, working himself back into the rage that drove him to accept this craziness in the first place.

His rhythm is steady, but he keeps changing the angle, always holding Gabriel's hips up as high as he can so Gabriel can never get purchase with his toes. He's completely at Sam's mercy. And Sam...

Sam is a powerhouse behind him, hips like pistons, his cock a steel rod pumping electricity straight past Gabriel's batteries into his core. Gabriel's own cock is throbbing, ready to blow, and he knows with hazy certainty that he's going to come soon.

He's just as certain that Sam won't stop when he does.

That fuels the fire, but what ultimately does him in is when Sam changes the angle again, plowing directly into his prostate. The first time is a pleasant surprise. A few more and the pleasure spreads, twining with the rest to heighten everything toward _too much._

Shock and lightning hedges into Gabriel's vision. His brain blanks out.

He comes in a series of shudders, hanging off Sam's cock like a coat on a hook.

Sam doesn't stop fucking him. In fact, he speeds up.

Gabriel swims back to himself and the situation in fits and starts, rucked up along the table. A steady, low tone morphs into the sound of Sam's voice, muttering.

“I can't believe I'm doing this,” he's yammering under his breath. “I can't believe—you fucking—offered, I never—”

_Lying liar who lies._

“I don't—”

_I've been in your dreams._

“You have always been—”

_Always been heading for this._

“So—god—damn— _ugh.”_   Sam grunts, frenzied, and falls over Gabriel. His hips work frantically, the fat shove of him swelling even more. Gabriel works back into it, clenching as much as he can, taking every glorious inch and letting it wrench animal sounds from deep within him.

“Think about it,” Sam rasps, sober again, lunging for Gabriel's ear. He gets it between his teeth and yanks. For a red-tinted instant, chews.

“Think about what you did.”

With strange divine clarity, Gabriel remembers all of them. Every single time Dean died at his hand for a lesson Sam didn't need to learn. Death by shower, death by taco, death by razor, death by dog. Hit by a car, a shotgun, a desk. Poisoned and shot and electrocuted.

Over and over, and Sam saw them all.

The next time Sam jolts up against his prostate, it knocks a word out of him: _“Dean.”_

Sam gasps, his cock swelling, hips staggering in their rhythm. “Again,” he orders. “Say it again.”

“There's something you're not telling—ah, okay!” Gabriel squeaks, Sam doubling his pace and slamming into him like a jackhammer. “Okay! All right, I—fuck, Dean!”

“That's it,” Sam soothes, all gritty molasses. He lets up on Gabriel's back, allowing him to scramble up on his elbows, finding the edge of the table and pushing back, back, back. _Dean, Dean, Dean._ Every time, Sam's breath hitches and knocks a little moan loose.

Unsurprisingly, Gabriel's cock has found interest in this again.

“Remember!” Sam barks. Gabriel does, even the parts he's tried to forget—never mind that it's impossible for him to forget a single moment of his existence. It drives some angels mad, he knows, and he never wanted to imagine a scenario in which he understood why. He never felt right thinking about Tuesday #75, but now, he doesn't have a choice.

 _“Dean,”_ he moans, like Sam did that night, after he panicked and confessed to his brother. They slept together. Gabriel remembers. It was beauty, and agony. Dean died of a burst aneurysm when he came.

Gabriel thinks he feels tears falling on his skin. Sam groans, but the next breath he hauls in is a sob.

“Whoa, whoa,” Gabriel says, clenching, rearing back and trying to get a hand on Sam, to slow him. “Hold on.”

Sam stills, breathing in gulps. He shudders, one big hand flying up to cover his face.

He pulls out.

Gabriel lets him, turns to face him, stepping up into his space. When Sam tries to shove away, Gabriel just grabs his trim hips and holds him, letting a little bit of the old strength show until Sam realizes he's not going anywhere.

His enormous frame shudders again.

A drop of blood splatters on the floor.

Gabriel yanks Sam's hand away from his face, searching, staring at his lower lip. He bit clear through it. As Gabriel watches, another drop wells.

He's sucking that lip between his own before he even knows he wants to.

Sam's muffled noise is full of heat—but he doesn't move. He doesn't open his mouth to Gabriel's questing tongue. After the moment passes, Gabriel moves back.

They regard one another, red-rimmed eyes and narrowing ones.

“He doesn't need those memories tossed into his PTSD salad,” Gabriel says. “It's bad enough _you_ remember. I can fix that, by the way.”

“No,” Sam rasps. “I need them. They keep me sane.”

His entire body trembles.

“Doesn't look that way from here,” Gabriel says.

“I don't dwell on them,” Sam says. He fidgets. “I know they really happened, though. I gotta—” He nods, quick little moue, confidence despite the yawning abyss of horror Gabriel knows he's seen. “I gotta hold on to that.”

Gabriel steps closer, slow enough for Sam to get away if he wants to. Sam's nostrils flare slightly, but he doesn't move, and Gabriel continues forward until he's pressed in close again. Until he can smell Sam, salt and spice. Close enough to lick.

“I still owe you one,” Gabriel tells him, and sinks to his knees.

 _Cleanliness is next to Godliness,_ he snickers, sanitizing Sam's cock with a thought. All those inches, rosy and thick. Gabriel wastes no time getting all that in his mouth—he's a hedonist, after all—and plunging down until he's working his throat around the head.

Above him, Sam's breathing strains. He’s got to be so sensitive by now...

Gabriel hums on the way back off, swirling his tongue, sucking back on. Rinse, repeat. Wax on, wax off. He makes it good for Sam, listening to the way he moans, adjusting suction and teasing and even the grip of his fingers around the base until Sam is writhing, and losing his balance.

Jacking the spit-soaked length, Gabriel draws off. He mouths at the tip, wetting it til it drips, saliva and precome mixing across his taste buds.

“Sam,” he groans, kitten-licks. He fastens his mouth around the head and hums with abandon.

Sam whines.

“Here you go, babe,” Gabriel whispers. He slides back on, taking Sam deep—and as he does, feeding a stinging hot line of pure pleasure directly into Sam's nervous system.

With a helpless noise, Sam comes like a gunshot, losing all control of his muscular function as he floods down Gabriel's throat. Only a cushioning afterthought saves him from knocking himself out on the edge of the table.

Gabriel swallows every drop. He lowers Sam easily to lie prone and twitching, Sam's cock dragging from his lips.

One last, violent shudder—and with a sigh, Sam relaxes.

He's smiling.

Gabriel dresses himself, feeling the last of his energy slip into the threads, and stands.

Sam's head lolls so he can regard him. “Leaving so soon?” he asks, slurring and sated.

“Yeah, I better. Won't Dean be back at some point?”

An expression so dark that it doesn't belong on Sam Winchester's face flickers there. “So what if he will,” he says mulishly.

Gabriel leaves that well alone.

“Thanks,” he says.

Sam snorts. “For what? I basically abused you.”

“I told you to,” Gabriel points out. “It was deserved.” When Sam doesn't say anything to that, Gabriel adds, “And... I may have enjoyed it.”

Sam snorts again, but this time there's a rue smile attached.

“Me, too,” he says.

When Gabriel offers a hand to help him stand, he clothes Sam, too. The last of his energy flickers and dies. He feels himself fading.

On impulse, he pulls Sam into a tight hug, an arm flung over Sam's neck.

“I'm not really here, but I am,” he says fiercely, “and _I am not dead.”_

Above the Earth, a typewriter stills. A slight bearded man smiles, and vanishes.

Sam's hands fall to his sides. He glances around an empty room, at a table where papers have been crumpled and knocked askew. Some of them are on the ground, suspiciously wet.

His lips twitch, neither a smile nor a grimace.

“See you around,” he says.


End file.
